Apple Pie
by windscryer
Summary: He would, forever after, associate it with sweetness and innocence. Dean/OFC. Implied adult content.


Warnings: Implied nookie, bit of language, unbetaed fic, an unnamed OFC, an abundance of sap, and country music.

Disclaimer: Sue if it will make you feel better, but I can't even pay my bills at the moment, so . . . Good luck with that. *thumbs up*

Inspired by Tim McGraw's _When She Wakes Up (And Finds Me Gone)_ and far too much of my own personal angst.

Yeah, I know. Mixing country music and Supernatural. Well, I'm already going to the Special Hell. How much worse can it get?

* * *

She was sweet.

Sweet and innocent and not at all his usual type. Which right there should have been his first and last reason to walk away and let her remain sweet and innocent and not at all his usual type.

But . . .

He didn't even know why he'd done it. Why he'd let some previously unrecognized—or just plain ignored—need surface and overrule his usual common sense.

Frisky, frenetic, blood pumping rawness and naked desire—and no strings attached—those were his normal requirements in a playmate, whether they stole an hour or he stayed for one night or even if he stretched it into a weekend.

It was a release, a physical need, like eating or pissing.

Some people made eating an art form, chose their food carefully and made the act more than just fulfilling a need required for survival. Some people did the same with sex.

Hell, some people probably did that with pissing too, but that just made them freaks.

The fact remained that it was not supposed to mean something more, be about anything more. Sweet and innocent types always wanted it to be about more.

Which was why his choice of sweet and innocent and not at all his usual type made no fucking sense whatsoever. He just . . . wanted—_needed—_sweet and innocent and not at all his usual type this time.

If Sammy were here instead of off with Bobby doing some research on a hunt that required going to the materials instead of vice versa, he would have had a field day with this, psychoanalyzing his horn dog older brother's need for something that he publicly disdained and just generally avoided.

And even if Dean _hadn't_ recognized what she was in the store where they met over the last fresh-baked apple pie, he should have known when he gave up the pie and they shared coffee at a diner and _talked_ for hours and then ended the night at her place with nothing more than smiles and wishes for pleasant dreams.

o.o

Hell, even if he didn't recognize it, that should have been the end of it.

There was no fucking reason for him to show up on her doorstep the next afternoon with a cherry pie that led to more talking but nothing else. Not even a damn kiss.

Well, one kiss. But it was on the lips—all of which remained firmly and chastely closed—and was shorter than a hooker's miniskirt.

o.o

He was still in town working on the case, that's what he told himself the third day—peach pie this time and vanilla ice cream.

They talked again—about who knew the hell what—and he helped her fix her screen door.

What the hell? Why not? It was something to do and she didn't have the first clue about which was the hammer and which was the screwdriver—or that neither were particularly useful in fixing a ripped screen in a door.

They ended up touching more than lips, though they both remained fully clothed, and even he would have been stretching to call it groping. Sam would have called it cuddling. Dean preferred not to think about what the correct term was.

Or the fact that there was a movie playing on the TV in which not a damn thing exploded, screamed, or died. There wasn't a whole lotta laughing either.

But—and he would die before admitting this—it wasn't so bad.

o.o

That voice in his head that had been getting louder every day asked on the fourth day—blueberry—what the hell he thought he was doing. He didn't need the milk so bad that he wanted to buy the cow.

And yet, here he was, pie and whipped cream in hand and not a single thought about how he would use it to draw designs on her stomach and then trace them over with his tongue.

Okay, maybe one or two. But they all flew out of his head when she opened the door and smiled and invited him in.

They actually kissed this time, instead of talking. Tongues were involved and everything. But their clothes still, stubbornly, remained completely on their bodies as they danced in her living room and he teased her for liking country music.

Even if it was a whole lot easier to sway to.

When he left that night, he saw the question in her eyes about whether he would be back. She knew he wasn't a permanent fixture in town, that had been established the first day. And she never asked aloud, because . . . Actually, he didn't know why. Shy, maybe. Either way, she made no demands, just seemed to be content to take each day as it happened and was grateful for it, even as she wondered.

Damned if he wasn't the same way.

o.o

Day five he almost—_almost_—resisted the urge to go.

He spent most of it in the library looking up witchcraft, wondering if she'd put some kind of hoodoo on him. He didn't have his answer by the time he gave up and headed over, strawberry pie in hand.

He made as quick a check as he could for any sort of hints that she was into something a sweet and innocent like her shouldn't be into. He didn't even find a drawer of toys, let alone anything that spoke of spellwork.

He did find out that she had silk sheets under her frilly, flowery comforter.

But only because he peeked while she was getting her neighbor a cup of sugar.

o.o

Day six surprised them both when she showed up at his motel room, pumpkin pie almost clutched to her chest.

She was flushed and stammering and he was at first concerned that she was sick or something had happened, but when she bit her lip and asked him if she was doing something wrong, he realized it was only nerves and naïve confusion.

Which was no explanation at all for _his_ blushing and stammering.

He had his guns out and obituaries and Latin cleansing rites tacked to the wall. That's what he told himself when he didn't invite her in.

But that wasn't an explanation either for why he walked her home and left with only one more kiss.

o.o

On the seventh day, he really did have to work. Sam was going to come looking for him if he didn't finish this up and head out. The fact that he had no explanation for why he hadn't done the damn ritual four days ago was barely enough to help him focus, but it sufficed.

And when he got back, sooty, tired, and aching from being used as a freakin' ghost's hackeysack, and found his car had been possessed—there was no other reason for his ending up at her house instead of his hotel—he just about hyperventilated.

She knocked on his door sometime after he got back to the room, but he kept the lights off and stayed in bed.

He was _not_ hiding under the covers though. He was just tired and it was just damn cold in that room.

o.o

He woke late and slept through check-out. That was why he didn't leave the eighth day.

He had to pay for another night anyway at this point. Might as well save the money and stay here, rather than have to pay for another somewhere down the road as well.

And if he was going to be in town, he might as well have some fun.

How the hell that translated to another apple pie and a now familiar little house instead of a bar and the first passably-pretty drunk chick he could find, he had no idea.

That scared the hell out of him.

Didn't stop him from striding up her walk and knocking on her door.

But it scared the fucking hell out of him.

She took the pie from him and set it on the small table just inside the door—then swamped him with a hug. He was returning it before he even knew what he was doing.

Damn.

Well, she was sweet and innocent, he reasoned. She wasn't like his usual type at all, who would kiss him and fuck him and moan his name—and then not bat an eye when he left before dawn and didn't ever come back.

She deserved an explanation, deserved to know that he was leaving and why he couldn't stay.

And he'd give it to her.

After pie.

o.o

Pie turned into laughing and teasing and whipped cream on her lip—which of course led to kissing. He was only human after all and that was practically a rule. Whipped cream on the lips while sharing pie between two consenting adults of differing genders—or same if you swung that way—could only be removed by kissing.

Maybe a little licking.

And touching was totally appropriate in this situation.

Closing distances between each other wasn't at all unprecedented.

And, well, what came after that wasn't really that surprising either.

They even managed to get their clothes off this time.

And those silk sheets were very nice indeed.

Even if they were pink.

o.o

Dawn of the ninth day came and Dean met it on his feet, staring—oh fine, _brooding—_out the window. She was still asleep, hair spread across her pillow, one hand delicately stretched out into the spot his body had warmed overnight.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't say it to her face.

And damn if that didn't make him a coward. Didn't change the facts.

He just simply could not look her in the eye and tell her that he was leaving. He'd rather go back to Hell than tell her he was never coming back.

And he couldn't.

Ever.

Not even if the gates of hell opened up in her backyard.

Which left him with a quandary. He still believed she needed to know why. He didn't want to make her one of his usual types, the kind who got used to—even expected—a quick fuck and an empty pillow in the morning. He wanted her to stay sweet and innocent.

But he just couldn't tell her to her face.

She'd cry. Even if she understood and even if she didn't want to make him feel guilty, she would cry.

And _that_ he couldn't handle.

So he needed to write a note, he supposed. He just had no idea what the hell to say.

Fuck.

There was no good way to do this. She was going to cry no matter what.

Dammit.

He glanced at the clock and exhaled slowly. If he kept putting it off he was going to have to stay another day and do it tomorrow. And that was a bad idea for so very many reasons.

So he padded to her little desk on silent feet and located a pen and some paper. He chewed his lip and stared at the blank expanse, then shut his eyes, told himself to grow a pair, and started writing. He had no idea what he even said.

When it was done he signed it, folded it in half, and left it on the pillow next to her.

He wanted to touch her one last time. Kiss her brow or stroke her hair or even wake her up with a long wet stripe from his tongue from her belly button up to her throat.

Oddly he wanted one of the first two more than the third.

And that way lay madness, so he just turned and left—grabbing the rest of his clothes, since he'd only put on his jeans so far, and headed out. He paused in the entryway to finish dressing, grabbed his jacket from the closet where she'd tucked it the night before . . . hesitated and leaned toward her coat just slightly, inhaling deeply, then backed up and slipped silently out the front door.

o.o

He cranked the music loud on the road out of town and told himself it made him feel better. He didn't even notice that a twang had replaced the pounding bass.

And when he hooked up with Sam two days later and found himself having to swallow a lump in his throat at the sight of apple pie in the diner where they had lunch, he told himself it was because he shouldn't have eaten his fries so fast.

It had nothing at all to do with the way that apple pie would forever be, in his mind, a reminder of things sweet and innocent.

* * *

Review, plz&thx.


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